


The Grace of Simple Things

by only_more_love



Series: Happy Steve Bingo 2019 [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: CapSeptender, Character Study, Don’t copy to another site, Established Relationship, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fluff, M/M, Married Couple, POV Steve Rogers, Podfic Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 08:07:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20485616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/only_more_love/pseuds/only_more_love
Summary: Steve gets up and goes for a run; Steve returns to Tony.Written for the Happy Steve Bingo 2019 - "First Kiss" Square, and the Captain America Septender Challenge.





	The Grace of Simple Things

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, I like bittersweet as much as the next person, but I needed to write some uncomplicated fluff again, so here we are. :) Happy reading!

When Steve wakes, it happens swiftly, the turn of a single book page to the next. One moment he’s asleep, the next moment his eyes are open and scanning their bedroom. He doesn’t need to check with J.A.R.V.I.S. or peer at the clock perched on their nightstand to know that it’s somewhere between 6:01 and 6:11 AM. Nearly every day, his body wakes him during that magic interval.

Their room is dawn-dark, and the hushed, in-out shiver of breath that doesn’t come from his lungs but someone else’s, tells Steve that Tony’s asleep beside him. Even through the shadows, Steve makes out the vaguely person-shaped hill that is Tony Stark; the sight tips his lips into a smile he couldn’t suppress even if he wanted to. (He doesn’t want to.) 

They always make it a point to fall asleep close together, but sometimes their bodies move apart during the long, still hours of the night. This morning, Tony’s rolled all the way to the other side of their king-size bed. Still, across the valley of their sheets, Tony’s arm lies stretched out in front of him.

Even in an alternate reality of slumber, Tony reaches for him. 

All is as it should be.  
  
(Steve reaches back.)

Without having consciously decided to do so, Steve slides closer to Tony, his body whispering against the sheets. The thought flits through his mind that he could turn his hands over Tony’s sleep-warm cheeks, against the crisp brush of his beard, and press their mouths together until Tony’s grumpy but undeniably awake; Steve lets that thought go. 

Clasped in Steve’s hand, Tony’s is a slight, warm weight. Steve slides it under his shirt, up over his belly, and further up than that, even, until it rests sweetly against Steve’s chest, a kiss of sorts. Through this, Tony doesn’t wake; his pulse remains a metronome to Steve’s super-soldier-sensitive ears. He inhales deeply through his nose, relishing the pressure of air inflating his lungs easily, so easily, unencumbered by asthma or other difficulties. 

So it is that with his sleeping husband’s calloused palm braced firmly over his heart, anchoring him, he allows his eyes to fall shut again, just for a few seconds. Thus Steve Rogers meets the day with his lips shaped in a silent _ Thank you_; prays for grace, humility, and the strength to do the right things, however imperfectly, whatever they might be.

* * *

  
Steve changes out of his pajamas and into the t-shirt and shorts he laid out the night before. In the kitchen, he gets the coffee started and pulls eggs, bacon, and bread out of the refrigerator and lays them in a row on the center island. The milk he’ll leave in the refrigerator until he actually needs it. 

Yes, it’s tempting to ease back into bed and wrap himself around Tony. But his days always go better, more smoothly, when he gets outside early and has time and space to clear his head and watch the sun slide herself, charming and indolent, over the city, touching concrete, steel, glass, and flesh alike with the same bright, mischievous fingers.

* * *

  
He runs. 

He runs, and air that carries the remnants of summer and the bright-sharp beginnings of autumn swirls over his bare shins and forearms. 

He runs with no music in his ears save that of the city—his city—their city—blinking awake in a morse code of light and sound and smell, too. Trucks belch wispy fumes from rusted tailpipes as they zag and zig through the grid of streets, carrying food and flowers alike to the stores and businesses stacked atop each other, crowded together on this small island like a child’s colorful set of blocks. 

His sneakered feet barely graze the pitted and pockmarked pavement before they’re airborne once again. The blood sings in Steve’s veins as he stretches his legs and sails over a metal grate through which floats musty-smelling steam that makes Steve’s nose twitch as it hits.

* * *

  
Steve’s strides slow until he stops in front of the corner bodega that sits three blocks from home. Flowers perch on display in large barrels outside the shop, their brightly-colored faces lifted sunward and skyward. A bouquet of carnations in a mix of crimson and buttery yellow lure his gaze. On impulse, he catches them up in one hand, the other reaching for a copy of _ The New York Times _. Tablets are fine for reading some things, but as much as Tony likes to tease him about it, Steve still likes the heft of a newspaper in his hands, the shift and snap as he goes from one page to the next, learning about what’s changed in the world overnight and what’s stayed the same. 

“Good morning, Mrs. Madera,” he says as he steps through the doorway and moves to the front counter to pay for his purchases. His shoes squeak against the freshly-waxed floor.

She looks up from the book of large-print sudoku that’s spread out in front of her on the scratched, clear-topped counter, her earrings—a long, dangly pair of wine-red rosettes this morning—swaying merrily at the sudden movement. “Oh, yes, it is, now, since you’re here.” Her round face creases in an easy smile as she leans forward over the counter and Steve obediently kisses one soft, wrinkled cheek and then the other, the powdery scent of roses rising to meet him. 

That done, Steve pulls back, smiling. “You say that every day.”

“Psh. I say that every day because it’s true, _ mijo_.” Her small hand pats his damp shoulder.

“You flatter me.”

“Never, Esteban,” she replies, voice solemn but with a definite twinkle in her brown eyes. 

Steve says nothing, opting instead to let the broad stretch of his smile speak for him as he takes a few bills from his clip and hands them to her. 

“For your handsome husband?” Mrs. Madera asks, eyebrows lifted over her kind eyes as she gently puts the flowers into a bag for him.  
  
“Always.”

“He’s a very lucky man,” she says, handing him his newspaper and his flowers.

Steve shakes his head, a certain heady lightness filling his chest as he thinks of his cozy bed and the sleep-rumpled man still dozing softly in it when he rose for his run. “No, that would be me.”

Mrs. Madera sighs, a dreamy expression washing over her time-blurred features. “Ah, to be young and in love.”

“Not so young,” Steve replies with the warmth of a flush crawling up his cheeks, “but definitely in love.”

Her laughter, a sound like chiming bells, follows Steve out the door of the small shop as he turns to tread the familiar path back to the person who shelters him more surely than a roof and four walls ever could.

* * *

  
When Steve steps back into the bedroom, he carries a large mason jar filled with water and holding the carnations he bought after his run. At the muted _ thunk _that sounds when he sets the jar down on the nightstand, Tony groans and sits up in their bed, the blanket sliding to puddle at his waist. He fumbles for his glasses. When they’re finally settled on his face, he blinks up at Steve, looking somewhat like an adorably befuddled owl as he pats his rumpled hair with fingers that are still a little sleep-slow and clumsy.

“Hi, handsome,” Tony finally says. His voice comes out thick and hoarse, nearly tactile, and as it rolls over Steve like seafoam nipping at his ankles, gosh, it Does Things to him.

“Good morning,” Steve replies, a touch breathless, which is maybe a tiny bit ridiculous because they’re well past the infatuation phase. He tugs his sweat-damp shirt over his head and turns toward the bathroom that adjoins their bedroom. 

“Nuh-uh. None of that. Come here.” Tony motions Steve closer with both hands.

“Just let me take a quick shower first,” Steve answers, hooking a thumb in the direction of the bathroom.

“Nope. No can do. You come sit here”—Tony pats a spot on the bed next to him—“right now.” His lips fold themselves into a pout that Steve’s never been able to resist, much as he's tried, so even as Steve wrinkles his nose at the prospect of subjecting their bed to his workout sweat, he finds himself walking towards Tony. 

Steve stops right next to the bed and waits. He doesn’t have to wait long because soon enough Tony swings his legs over the side of the bed, pulls the shirt out of Steve's hand, tosses it on the floor with an airy flick of the wrist, and then slips his thumbs into the waistband of Steve’s shorts and briefs. Tony’s thumbs slide against Steve’s skin with just a hint of a nail, and his head tips back so he’s staring up at Steve with much less sleep and much more heat than had been there a minute ago. “Those for me, sunshine?” Tony asks, the cant of his eyebrows nothing short of beautiful as he angles his head toward the cheerful bunch of carnations.

Steve’s hands come up and settle on Tony’s shoulders, kneading carefully. “No, for my other fella,” he replies with a shake of his head and a twist of his lips.

“Oh, that’s too bad.” Tony shrugs, faux casual, and pulls his thumbs back out, leaving the elastic at Steve's waist to snap smartly against his skin. “I was going to find an extra nice way to say thank you.”

“Yeah?” 

“Mmm-hmm.”

Steve licks his lips. “How were you planning to do that?” 

“Eh, you know, something that involved me licking the sweat off you.”

“Gross.”

“Is it? ‘Cause I was thinking," Tony says, slow as honey, "you know, it’s my mouth and your body, and”—here Tony pauses and eases forward in a rustle of fabric, his mouth hovering under Steve’s navel and above the line of his shorts—“how gross can that really be?” Steve shifts on his feet, restless, and then because Tony’s true to his word, his tongue darts out to press along Steve’s damp skin. “G’morning, beloved,” Tony murmurs against Steve, muffled, kissing Steve’s stomach, and Steve’s hips hitch forward helplessly as a moan tangles in his throat. “See? So gross, right?” Tony asks, sassy and knowing, his nimble fingers already busy tugging down Steve’s shorts and briefs. 

“Absolutely filthy, sweetheart,” Steve replies, and bends to curve his hands ‘round Tony’s face and bear him backward on their bed as their lips finally, finally meet. 

Tony just laughs—dirty, and so, so sweet—pouring sunlight into the waiting well of Steve’s mouth.

He’ll always wait for him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. If you have a moment to leave kudos and a comment, I'd love to hear your thoughts. I respond to all comments, though sometimes it takes me a while. If you don't feel like commenting, I still hope you enjoyed this. :) Be well. 
> 
> You can find me at [onlymorelove.tumblr.com](http://onlymorelove.tumblr.com), where I post GIF sets, ramble, etc.; come talk to me if you like. I do not bite. :) Sometimes you can also find me on Discord.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Grace of Simple Things](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20783669) by [only_more_love](https://archiveofourown.org/users/only_more_love/pseuds/only_more_love)


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